


Seeing Stars

by AnEarHat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, The solar system - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-18
Updated: 2013-05-18
Packaged: 2017-12-12 06:14:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/808237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnEarHat/pseuds/AnEarHat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has many talents. Here, it becomes clear that painting and pleasing John are two of them, and two that work in harmony.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seeing Stars

“Sherlock?”

John set his coat down and frowned at the absence of curly hair and pointy elbows. 

“Sherlock!”

He listened, waiting for a response that he knew wouldn’t come even if he could be heard. John sighed. Sherlock wasn’t on a case, he would have texted John with fragments of deductions that would make absolutely no sense to John but would have let him know, at least, to expect an empty flat or an urgent summons. John couldn’t smell anything vaguely poisonous coming from the kitchen, so Sherlock hadn’t conducted an experiment-gone-wrong and run away to hide from John’s imminent shouting. John hummed. He could see nothing out of place within the room, nothing that would show anything dangerous had happened. Sucking his teeth, John’s head turned towards Sherlock’s bedroom door. He turned fully and stepped cautiously towards the open door. His nose wrinkled as he got closer. Pushing the door open, it practically stung with the pungent smell.

“Sherlock, have you been pai- oh, my God.”

John’s eyes widened, running along the clumsy paintwork around the edges of Sherlock’s ceiling; dark blue lines jutting down parts of the walls and dripping lazily onto the carpet below. On the actual ceiling, the spread of the navy paint was even and almost neat. What caught John’s attention, though, was what was painted over the dark blue base. Hundreds, thousands of white dots, differing in size and distance apart, precisely and perfectly stained onto the ceiling in exact formation, interspersed with flecks of yellow, red, purple. Larger, more colourful circles, just as precisely painted, stuck out from the darkness of the blue behind them and seemed almost to protrude from the actual ceiling. In the very centre, painted around the flimsy lightbulb, was a huge ball of beautiful warm colours. Yellows and whites flecking out in flares around the edges, swirling into reds and oranges of all sorts towards the middle. 

“Sher…”

“Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune.”

“And Pluto.”

“Pluto doesn’t count.”

John blinked and forced his eyes to tear away from the beautiful ceiling to look at Sherlock, lying on his bed, covered in paint and looking extremely pleased with himself. Next to him was a star chart and a diagram of the solar system, which put together exactly mirrored the ceiling above. John smiled.

“Fantastic…” he muttered. “Didn’t know you could paint?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.” John grinned quietly. “And you’ve done all this because…?”

“Just in case it comes up again. Can’t afford another almost-slip-up. I’m studying.”

“Right, right.” 

John smiled knowingly. Sherlock knew that John knew there was more to this than that, he must have done, but John kept quiet about it, shifting from foot to foot. He cleared his throat and crossed the room to the window, opening it slightly to prevent Sherlock from becoming addicted to paint fumes. Closer, now, to the empty side of the bed, John sat down and looked up again to the ceiling, still very much in awe of how scarily real and close-up it looked, almost as if he was swimming through the sky. He lay down next to Sherlock and let the view swallow him up. What would have been a twitch or spasm on anyone else’s face, but what counted as a smile on Sherlock’s. caught the corner of John’s eye.

“What are you so happy about?”

“I just find the solar system very pleasing, John,” came the reply, audibly tainted with the temptation to grin.

John smiled, still looking up at the stars. “Oh.”

For about half an hour they lay there together, star gazing under the closest (and most painted) sky in all of London; a comfortable silence wrapping them up like a blanket binding them together. Finally, John turned his head on the pillow and looked at Sherlock properly. Utterly dishevelled, erratic curls sticking up from his paint-dotted face, tired. And looking content. John thought, racked his memory. He’d never seen Sherlock look content, before. Pleased, yes. Happy, perhaps once or twice. But never content like this. It made something warm bloom in his own chest and the contentedness was reflected back at Sherlock from John. Scooting closer, he kept his eyes on Sherlock, whose own flicked back at him and rested there. Still, the silence remained, comfortable but now with a hint of excited tension. Sherlock’s body followed his eyes, and the two men were lying facing each other beneath their own night sky.

“Why did you really do this?” John murmured.

“Do you like it?”

“It’s beautiful. Yes, I do.”

“Then that is why I did it.”

John blinked back what would have been a smile. "What?"

"Don't make me repeat myself, please."

"You did this for me."

"You've been practising your deduction skills, I'm impressed," Sherlock teased, smile tugging gingerly at the corners of his lips. He bit down on the bottom one nervously, eyes darting down to where their hands rested. He wiggled his closer to the other and hooked his index finger around John's, eyes checking it was okay as they darted back up to where they had rested on John's. An answering squeeze of the finger and a smile both put him at ease and started up a whole new level of nervousness. He gulped.

"So..." John murmured. He laced all of his fingers through Sherlock's, filling the gaps just right. Sherlock shifted closer. John could see a hint of pink creeping onto one of those impossile cheekones, rising up under a splotch of navy blue paint. He smiled and brought his other hand to rest on it, thumb brushing the dried paint and smooth skin. Pulling slightly, he guided Sherlock's head closer to his own until their foreheads touched, pale eyes so close to his own. For a moment, he lost himself in them. It was as if someone had taken two clear ponds and decided to swirl into them shades of green and blue paint, bottomless black sky and moonlight reflecting from their cores. Up close, like this, they didn't seem cold and distant, were't judging or emotionless. They were hauntingly beautiful and full of feeling. "Thank you," whispered John.

"Don't... don't thank me. This was a decidely selfish move on my part and was entirely for personal gain."

John chuckled. "You do know how to make a girl feel special."

"...Joke?"

"Joke."

Sherlock nodded a little, mouth forming an 'O'. His eyes found John's mouth and lingered there. John had had a cup of tea and some jammie dodgers in the cafe for his lunch at work. Nothing since. Would be hungry soon. Needed a new toothbrush. He'd been biting at his lips: stressed, then. Worried. About what? Work? Yes. Trivial. Dull. Unlike the smile that had now formed on said mouth. He'd seen Sherlock staring, then. Damn. Or good. Definitely good. 

Sherlock met John's eyes to ask for permission. Permission was granted with a slight blush. Gulping, Sherlock lifted his head and brought his mouth close to John's, eyes wide with anticipation. "John, I... Are you sure?"

John smiled, tipping his head up and fleetingly brushing their lips together in answer. He pulled Sherlock's head down, pressing their lips fully together over and over, flurries of quick kisses, each as welcome and surprising as the last. One final kiss, one where lips moved against lips and hands moved to grip curls and jumpers, where teeth came clumsily into play and any reservations about what they were doing were lost.

When they broke apart and with one look stepped together into their new life, both saw the relief in the other's face that they each felt in their own chests, and nothing in any planet, comet, sun, or moon could matter more to them than that.


End file.
